


respite

by orphan_account



Series: beyond reason [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ch. 17 Spoilers, Confessions, Fluff, Golden Deer Route, M/M, post timeskip spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 06:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20326936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: of all the people to find out linhardt’s problem, it had to be her.her. hilda valentine goneril, or who he liked to call, “oh no.”





	respite

**Author's Note:**

> hilda!! hilda!!! my twit followers requested fluff so here I be, giving the gays what they want. also I am wicked sick rn so if there's more mistakes than usual pls forgive me I edited it the best I could;;; enjoy! lemme know what you think!

Late spring gripped the rebuilding Garreg Mach Monastery with a frenzy of activity: the greenhouse sported promising shoots bearing colorful flowers, a surplus of fish flooded the pond, new merchants wandered through the gates bearing more wares, and the Alliance brewed its asinine plan of “storming” the “Old General” by simply walking through the front door as imposters. But that was later in the month, not now, so it didn’t crawl up to the top of Linhardt’s list of Top Ten Pressing Issues of Spring 1185.

No, instead a whole _other_ matter skyrocketed into the number one spot while he attempted to doze beneath the gazebo’s shade. He pressed his papers beneath his heavy tomes to prevent them from escaping in the breeze before stretching. He worked hard enough today, he deserved it. He buried his face in his arms, slouching over the table, and closed his eyes hoping a dream would reveal another Crest secret to him -

\- only for a hearty _thwap_ on his shoulders to jerk him rudely from his coveted nap time.

“_What,_” he groused, lifting his head and expecting to see Caspar. His growl shifted to momentary puzzlement upon seeing bright pink twintails and a cheeky wink. What did _she_ want? “Did you mistake me for someone or something? My hair is dark, but it’s not quite _purple_ if you’re looking for Lorenz. You should get your eyes checked.”

Hilda tittered, batting away his insults with a coy smile and a knowing look. “Oh, Linny,” she said, sitting across from him and folding her hands innocently in her lap. “Linny, Linny, Linny.”

Wait a moment, he knew this game. He’s seen that look on her face several times over when she conned poor saps with a simple cutesy giggle. His frown returned in tenfold. “Look, I know you’re the type to get others to do your work for you, but trying that on me is blatant stupidity unless I’m your absolute last hope. The answer is no. Goodbye.”

A peculiar deviousness slipped into her smile, firing warning bells in Linhardt’s brain. She leaned in closer, voice lowered. “Oh, _no,_ I wasn’t going to ask you to do anything. Even if I did, you’d probably just fall asleep halfway through and I’d end up having to do it myself.” Her fingers, polished to perfection, rapped against the wood. “I just thought I wanted to share something I saw today. You know, little harmless fun-time gossip.”

Her enunciation of _harmless _\- the playfulness in her voice, the lilt - flagged a sense of impending doom if he proceeded to continue this conversation. While Hilda acted like some helpless maiden destined to watch from the sidelines, her manipulation tactics and astonishing brute strength seeped out from behind the seams of her slipshod persona. He needed to be careful. He grabbed his books, stifled a yawn, and replied tiredly, “No thanks. Go find Marianne to smile and nod at your nonsense.”

She shook her head. “No no, I couldn’t possibly do that. I’m sure she’s got other things to think about instead of your little crush on the Professor.”

His grip on his books faltered, allowing them to crash unceremoniously around his feet. The precious research papers became wrinkled from the impact, though that was but an afterthought compared to the sudden shift in reality itself. He turned, slowly, with widened eyes and a clenched jaw to look at her smug “I knew it” face. How. How could she _possibly_ know when he buried that nagging tug at his heart deep beneath the earth and cast aside the only shovel left into the fire?

“Got your attention now, huh?” She twirled her hair around her forefinger and blinked. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m not gonna blackmail you or anything. Believe it or not, I’m here to help. Although,” she glanced upward, “I _could_ use a little teensy hand in the library reorganizing the books later this afternoon…”

“How,” he managed to spit out while gathering his dropped belongings. She tilted her head, confused for a moment, before snapping her fingers.

“Please. This is me we’re talking about! I know a forlorn lovestruck stare better than the rest of them! You should be more shocked if I _didn’t_ notice.” 

Stare? When did he stare? Linhardt sorted through the catalogue of recently collected memories stashed away about Byleth. Battle came to mind first, but that wasn’t unusual in any way; Linhardt’s very job in studying faith magics required to keep his sights on everyone and ensure they were attended to after doing something stupid. Class came second, but _not_ listening to Byleth’s lecture would be utterly foolish, especially since he even bothered to transfer classes to do so five years ago. His thoughts then turned to lunchtime earlier - he and Caspar, accompanied by Bernadetta, ate close to the service counter. Manuela’s heels had caught his attention as she sidled up to Byleth, asking him if he needed a hand in anything. Her closeness left little room for interpretation about her actual intents.

Ah. _That_ stare. He grimaced and glanced toward the monks tending the hedges. 

“Aw, turn that frown upside down!” Hilda waggled her finger in front of his face, tutting. “Like I said, I’m here to help. _Someone’s_ got to aid everyone’s crushing problems around here, because oh my god there’s so much of it. Heck, I just helped out Ignatz with this stuff the other day and it worked like a charm, so I’m _pretty_ experienced.”

“Shouldn’t you be, oh, I don’t know, helping that disaster of a duke plan for the upcoming preparations you fools call ‘strategy?’”

“I already did my part.”

“So you assigned all your parts to other people.”

“Exactly. So that leaves me with time to do other important things. Like helping you and the Professor hook up.”

Thank the heavens he wasn’t drinking tea, for he would have promptly spat it all out. Instead, his skin burned forty-nine different shades of crimson from her careless words. “Who exactly do you take me for, Sylvain? I’m not interested in pursuing such things. I am perfectly content with the way we are right now.”

“What, you looking totally jealous and fuming while Professor Manuela hugs his arm and does the whole ‘hey there handsome want to have a drink with me’ spiel? Yeah, sure seems pretty content to me.”

A lull. Hilda’s continuous points kept pounding away at the coffin nail fracturing the sarcophagus sealed with those feelings never intended to be seen in the light of day. A headache radiated in his temples; he rubbed them irritably. Accepting her assistance meant admitting to something he wasn’t quite sure he was willing to commit to yet. Romance and courtship and all that palava demanded more time and effort compared to any other project he ever embarked on - in fact, it could be an entire _lifetime._ Years upon _years_ being with and studying one person through different phases of life, good bad and indifferent. Not only did that sound intolerably boring, it sounded exhausting. 

If it were with anyone _else._

Byleth’s mysteries beckoned Linhardt to step one foot forward into what looked like a puddle, only to drown in a flooded canyon of intrigue. He oft thought nobles to be selfish and arrogant creatures, ones he disassociated with whenever he could. Yet in his thirst for knowledge, in his desire to piece together the threads of Byleth’s befuddling character, Linhardt’s own arrogance grew in thinking _he_ could solve everything, and his selfishness demanded he allowed no one else to. He first wanted to just solve the Crest with no one else’s annoying interference until it spun wildly in wanting _all_ of Byleth to himself. The thought of someone like Manuela or anybody else hogging his former professor’s attention - he loathed it.

He exhaled slowly, staring blankly at the wrinkled papers, before closing his eyes.

Goddess help him. He should have gone to his old dormitory room and napped there, where Hilda never could have found him.

“Let’s say, hypothetically,” he forced himself to look at her, clenching his fists, “I agree to your ridiculous proposition and ask for your help. What exactly is in it for _you?_”

She pressed her pinky to her cheek, eyebrows raised. “What, you think I’m in it for something? Why can’t a friend just help a friend?”

“I can count the number of times we’ve exchanged words outside of battle and meetings on one hand, that’s why. We’re not exactly the closest. So what are you looking for?”

“Well, since you asked _so_ nicely.” She laced her fingers together and stretched her arms high above her head. “If - hypothetically, of course - I help you out, and you get smooching with our professor, I can get you to _finally_ convince him to take me off the battlefield.” Her nose wrinkled. “All this fighting wears me out and is delicate on my ladylike sensibilities! I’m much better at cheering from the sidelines, but he’s so stubborn and won’t let me. So that’s where _you_ come in.”

“Let me get this straight. You want to help me get together with By--with our former professor just so you can avoid work.”

“Yeesh, when you put it that way, it makes me sound like I’m _lazy._ I’m not, I just have better uses! Other purposes, you know? Ones that _don’t_ involve getting all kinds of sweaty and gross all the time. Or breaking my nails.” She frowned at them, dismayed. “I swear, the number of times they get chipped is _soooo_ annoying.”

He raised an eyebrow. For someone he found to be incredibly irritating, her methodology in avoiding responsibility and expectations was nothing short of outstanding. If only he had asked her for tips back when he subjected himself to Edelgard’s nagging for missing lectures; he may have spared a headache or five. 

“Besides,” she prattled on, “he seems to listen to _your_ suggestions a lot more than the others.”

“He’d be foolish not to. Claude and I work on battle strategies regularly, since we’re both apt in tactical thinking.” A pain, sure, but saying _no_ during a war seemed a little too rude, especially given their enemy. The Alliance needed as much assistance as it could get, and Linhardt needed a future full of ample nap times, so really, it was an investment. He frowned at Hilda, who rocked back and forth in her seat, waiting. “What.”

“I’m waiting for your answer,” she said. “Do we have a deal or not?”

He weighed his options. For one, losing Hilda as a leader for the infantry troops simply to use her as “moral support” would be absolutely asinine to anyone with half a brain cell. Convincing Byleth to do so, a man who understood the flow of battle better than anyone, would be like trying to catch a fired arrow between two fingers. However, if he refused her tantalizing offer, he lost an opportunity that he may come to regret. If she helped _Ignatz_ of all people, then surely her guidance held merit.

“Fine,” he answered at last, “let’s get this over with.”

“_Excellent.”_ Hilda glowed in pride. “You won’t regret it. I pinky promise.”

***

He regretted everything ever.

Following Hilda’s lead and routine was worse than every insufferable waking moment where he watched Caspar pick a fight with someone three times his height. Suitors of all sorts - nobles and commoners, young and old, men and women - approached her beck and call, starry-eyed and willing to lick the very ground she stepped upon if it made her smile. Infatuation proved an ugly drug, and Hilda’s influence spread its infectiousness like a terrible rumor. Dorothea followed a similar trade, charming those around her whenever she pleased, but she did it as a business woman. Hilda did it as an opportunist.

“Why did I agree to this,” he lamented as she waved to the next poor sucker willingly lugging supplies to the dining hall. She puffed her cheeks and put her hands on her hips.

“Listen, buckaroo,” her finger pressed sharply against his nose, “if you want to get the professor’s attention, you’re gonna need as much help as you can _get._ Not even _Manuela_ can get into his pants, and that woman _oozes_ sex appeal! You complaining is so not attractive.”

None of that made much sense, but asking her more questions seemed more troublesome than what it was worth. “I don’t see how me watching you do this,” he gestured toward the soldier transporting her goods in the distance, “is going to help me with my problem. It’s tiring, if anything.”

“Oh, that? No, that’s not going to help _you_ any.” She shook her head. “We’re going someplace else for the _real_ training.”

Unsurprisingly, her comment only made him feel more uneasy. Training? Just how much effort went into wooing the person of your affection? Before getting the chance to voice his concerns, Hilda latched onto his wrist and tugged him along, dragging him through the monastery's winding staircases and narrow hallways. Their journey spanning for what felt like hours ended upon reaching their tactics room. 

Claude glanced up from his work and hailed them with a two-finger salute. “Heya, Hilda and… Linny?” His eyebrow lifted, head cocked to the side. “That’s a combo you don’t see everyday.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Linhardt jerked his hand back, rubbing the spots where Hilda squeezed too hard.

“Claude.” She sauntered over to him and leaned against the table, hand splaying over his paperwork. He pursed his lips in thought before grinning, amused as she continued. “Can I ask you for an itty-bitty, teensy weensy favor?”

Oh no. Linhardt began backing up, a sudden dread creeping along his skin.

“Depends. Will this favor of yours have me running to Fodlan’s Locket and back, or will it give me respite from staring at big concepts like ‘diplomatic approach’ and ‘how to get your fellow dukes to be on the same page?’ ‘Cause I’m up to my eyeballs in work already, if you can’t tell.”

“Trust me, it’ll do the latter and more. See,” she jabbed her thumb towards Linhardt, who currently contemplated how much speed he needed to jump out the window and land safely in the pond, “your favorite Linny here has a _bit_ of a c-r-u-s-h on everyone’s _favorite_ new church representative, and he needs some tips on how to,” she pressed the back of her hand against her forehead and let out a dramatic gasp, _“flirt.”_

Linhardt made it to the windowsill before Hilda caught up to him and dragged him back to the seat next to Claude’s, who grinned ear-to-ear.

“Why, Hilda. You didn’t bring me a favor, you brought me a _gift._” A gleeful shimmer lit up in his narrowed eyes, gaze roaming all over Linhardt’s face. “Took you long enough to admit it, eh? I mean, c’mon. Waiting at the Goddess Tower for him five years back?” He whistled. “About time you did something about it.”

Linhardt wondered briefly how likely he could get away with murdering a new duke and his fellow scheming cohort. “Stop bringing that up. That was for something _completely_ different. Research purposes.” 

“Alright, alright.” Claude held up his hands in submission. “But got the hots for Teach, huh? Can’t say I blame you, he’s a real looker and a half. Can’t dance worth his salt, though. Remember the night of the ball? ‘Course you do. Guy’s got two left feet. Good thing we didn’t make him our Heron Cup rep.”

Now he kept bringing up that night on purpose. “Can we _please_ change the subject.”

Hilda clapped her hands together once and stood between them. She nodded. “Yes, and we’re changing the subject back to the pressing issue at hand. Operation, Get Linny a Date is a go! ‘Cause you _will_ help, won’t you, Claude?” She batted her eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

This woman couldn’t even do the advice-giving part herself. At this point, Linhardt’s headache tiptoed toward migraine territory, and no nap within the entirety of Fodlan could rid him of it. Claude glanced over his pressing piles of paperwork, hummed, and grinned.

“Count me in.”

In the distance, a storm brewed.

***

The art of courtship, as Dorothea used to say, required grace, good countenance, and something or rather Linhardt tuned out in favor of getting some shut-eye. Neither of these qualities resided in his two makeshift “instructors,” who stood before him in some ridiculous play-acting on how to - as Claude ever so delicately put it - “hit on” Byleth. They already procured a rickety, unused round table, some chairs, and some old china to simulate a tea time because apparently - as Hilda ever so cheekily explained - nothing got the “good ol’ romance vibes a-goin’” quite like some apple-flavored tea.

“You know my friend well enough to know he tends to take initiative in these sorts of things.” Claude patted the backrest of the chair in front of him. “He’s invited everyone to eat lunch, have tea, yadda yadda. To him, it’s nothing special. But him being the one invited to do things? Being approached by someone? I daresay many people wouldn’t even think to try. Most people put him on a pedestal.”

Hilda nodded. “You know, now that I think of it? I never thought to do that. I’m just so used to him coming up to me and asking me to join him.”

“And _that,_ Linny,” Claude snapped his fingers with great enthusiasm, “is how you make your first move. Invite him to do something - literally anything! - and you’ve already crossed the first threshold between you and your ten future kids and a white picket fence. Like so. Here, Hilda, you pretend to be Teach for a sec, would ya?”

She cleared her throat, smoothed out her shirt, and straightened her back, face utterly devoid of any emotion. Her acting skills were, Linhardt hated to say, quite impressive. If not for her rounded features, she would be in exact likeness to Byleth - minus the overbearing pink _everything._ Claude approached her, grin wide on his face. 

“Heya, my friend. Fancy to see you out here! Side-note.” He whispered behind his hand toward Linhardt. “You want to act as casual as humanly possible. Acting like a nervous nelly ‘cause you’re anxious about your possible date will just make him think something’s wrong. So, calm and composed. Got it? Cool. Keep rolling!” He dropped his hand. “Since you’re here, have any free time? Wanna come spend it with me, or are you busy right now?”

Hilda clapped, smile wide on her face. “Ooh, nice one. See here, Linhardt? He’s _asking_ instead of _suggesting_ to spend time together, because not only does it take initiative, but it shows you care about not just what _you_ want, but the professor’s schedule, too.”

“And if he is busy, it gives you a chance to reschedule in the future.”

Goddess above. Linhardt found himself nodding. They actually - they actually had _points._ Decent, _good_ points, even - sound logic that could be applied appropriately. If only they had this level of smarts for important things, like storming Fort Merceus with a less ridiculous course of action other than _dressing like the enemy _as if they lived in a fairytale. (Then again, he had nothing _better_ to offer, but they didn’t need to know that.)

“Ahem!” Hilda recomposed herself before adopting Byleth’s thinking pose, down to the very shift in weight from one foot to the other as she tilted her head. “Hello, Claude. I’m free, yes. What did you have in mind?”

“Now this part is kinda important.” He gestured to the make-believe tea set-up. “Like Raphael says, the best time to get to know each other is over eating a meal together. So you gotta plan the timing right! Can’t approach him all willy-nilly by being too soon after lunch or too close to dinner.”

Linhardt wrinkled his nose. “So many details. Is there an abridged version?”

“That’s not the kind of attitude you want to have if you want to sweep the professor off his feet,” Hilda admonished. “The _details_ are the most important part!”

“Right, like which tea you want to give him, what food you want to share, _where_ you’ll have it - like if it’s outdoors, then you need to plan for the weather…” Claude shrugged. “...Not to mention brainstorming the topics of curiosity you wanna bond over, coming up with follow-up dates, how to approach possible disagreements -”

“How to dress, too! Looking the part is _just_ as important as playing it. You want to look your best for the person you love.”

A lump caught in Linhardt’s throat. “That’s - love is a strong -”

“Well, wait, Hilda.” Claude shook his head. “You don’t wanna overdo it, especially over something simple like sharing tea. Dressing your best can wait for more important milestones. Like, you know. Proposing. Marriage. Divorcing over how many pet cats are too many pet cats. The big ones. If you look nice _all_ the time, it kind of loses its effect, don’t you think?”

She frowned. “Well, you don’t want to do what Caspar did and run right to your date immediately after training. Can you _believe_ he didn’t bother to change - or wash off! - after training before seeing Bernie? How inconsiderate.”

“Basically, just look like yourself for the best results. Anyways.” He raised an eyebrow, grin slipping into concern. “You okay, Linny? You look a little spooked there. Oh, wait - did you see one of the resident ghosts? Heard there’s quite a few of them on this floor.”

“Ghosts,” he retorted, “are _not_ real, for one.”

“What, so Goddesses with amazing powers and swords that can cut through mountains are completely feasible, but you draw the line at ghosts?”

“I just,” Linhardt continued, pointedly ignoring Claude’s comment, “I don’t think I can do this, after all. There’s too much, and I don’t think I care enough to pay attention properly.”

He looked away, irritated at himself. It was the same as always: anything that didn’t particularly strike his fancy, he couldn’t even pretend to be interested in learning about. His brain automatically shut down, fixating on things he did like. And he did like (_love_) Byleth quite a bit - but the idea of courtship? The way people interacted when they wanted to be with someone? He already loathed forced interaction as-is, but to try to get something out of it that didn’t pertain to his research? None of it seemed interesting. No matter how hard Claude or Hilda or whoever tried to aid Linhardt, his mind wandered, his brain tired, his body yearned for rest, and the valuable knowledge intended to help fell from his fingertips, out of sight. A static remained instead. 

If he couldn’t even do this much for Byleth, perhaps pursuing such feelings was a bad idea - especially countless people in Byleth’s life could put in the effort and offer so much more. It wasn’t like him to doubt himself so much, but he knew his limits better than anyone. He was no Manuela, Dorothea, or Claude. He long ago claimed he had no need for charm, and basked in the idea of being left alone to do as he wished.

But now what he wished for was to be with someone, with not an ounce of charm in his body. The Goddess had a sense of humor, he’d give Her that.

Hilda and Claude glanced at each other, expressions changing so quickly in some silent conversation he couldn’t even try to be privy to. Hilda pursed her lips and rocked on her heels as Claude rubbed his chin in thought. Several moments passed, and Linhardt rose to his feet, shaking his head.

“I apologize for wasting your afternoon on something so frivolous. I’ll be leaving now.”

“I’ve got it!”

He stopped. Hilda, too, looked confused as Claude nodded once, twice, three times, before walking up to a puzzled Linhardt.

“You’re right. You two aren’t really prone to smalltalk - this works for people like Lorenz or Hilda over there. But you two don’t need all that. I _get_ it now. So, change of plans. Riddle me this, Linny,” he asked, eyes twinkling, “how many pond snails do you have left?”

***

The waters lapped at Linhardt’s hook. The storm, thankfully, passed, leaving a calm and starry night over the monastery. Lanterns surrounded the dock to light up the area, candlelight flickering against the scales of fish who drew close enough. Aside from the rhythmic beat of patrolmen wandering the grounds, the crickets, and the steady rush of the waterfall, it was blessedly quiet. A perfect night for fishing. He yawned, head tilting as he heard someone approach, and smiled.

Two baskets - one empty, one almost overflowing with fishing reel, bait, and other knick knacks - sat beside Linhardt, followed by Byleth. He wore civilian clothing as opposed to the armor Linhardt grew so accustomed to seeing, simple and a little too large for him. The knife and its sheath, however, remained close to his hip; once a mercenary, always a mercenary, Linhardt assumed. They exchanged looks; Linhardt nodded, and Byleth returned his smile with a faint one of his own.

(“I’d love to,” he answered upon Linhardt’s proposition, and his heart skipped a beat. “I’ll see you there.”)

Byleth hooked a wriggling earthworm before casting his line into the water, stare vacant at the calm pond waves. He leaned back a little, readjusted his grip on his pole, and shifted his gaze upward toward the sky. Linhardt followed suit. While the constellations were nothing like that of the Great Tree Moon’s, this moon’s show was nothing short of wonderful; there peaked Saint Cethleann in the west, tiara aglow with the Star of Madora in its center. Her full splendor would come around in the seventh moon. Close to her side watched the ever wary Saint Cithol.

“Fell Star,” Byleth murmured, and Linhardt turned to look at him. His hardened green eyes appeared softer in the gentle light, lost in thought. 

“Sorry?”

“That is what Solon addressed me as, five years ago.” His line bobbed once, then stilled. A false alarm. “I never understood what it meant.”

Neither did Linhardt, and it wasn’t for his lack of trying. He scoured the archives within the monastery’s library for answers, only to find more dust mites and dog-eared pages of worthless treasure troves. He thought it would lend a clue regarding the Crest of Flames, or about his then-Professor’s true identity. Instead, he only got more questions. Questions that, he decided, could be pondered at another time. Not now, a time where Byleth was _supposed_ to be relaxing.

“Well, _look_ at you,” he replied, hoping his tone sounded playful enough, “your hair definitely seems like it could come from the stars. Maybe you just one day fell out of the sky to test out the theory of gravity?”

It earned him a chuckle. “What is with me and falling?”

“Ah yes. From skies, cliffs, and over your own feet while dancing. Really now, you’d think you would know better. Only an idiot tries the same thing and expect a different result. And you call yourself a professor?”

The chuckle turned into a full-blown smile. “Did Claude tell you about the ball?”

Unfortunately. “Every detail. Face-first into his chest, was it?”

“I stepped on his feet a few times, too.” He sighed at the memory. “I never danced before that night, and I think he must have guessed as much. Father never thought dancing would help my work as my mercenary, so I never learned until then.”

Linhardt nodded. It made sense. His thumb rubbed the twine of his rod. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I lately have had the tendency for falling, too.”

Byleth glanced up at Linhardt. “Oh? Falling asleep, you mean?”

“Well, yes. That, and…”

He licked his lips. A fish nudging his line bought him some more time, reeling it in like his thoughts. Once he said it, he could never take it back. Everything between them would change, regardless of Byleth’s own feelings. Such thoughts colored every word and gesture with new meaning once you knew. It certainly changed Linhardt’s own perspective once he realized what the twist in his heart meant.

But Claude, regrettably, was right.

(“You can’t stress about it so much that you never tell the truth. Especially now that we’re in a war, when that truth can be ripped away and buried before it ever comes out. All it takes is one arrow through the heart to ruin all your chances.”)

He released the fish - too young, needed a few more years to mature - and his held breath.

“For you,” he said, returning the stare, “Byleth.”

It took a moment to settle. A patrol group called out and waved to Byleth, who gave a short wave back. His intrigued expression went blank, then confused, then blank again. His line snagged something large, but he didn’t pull it in, and the bait was snatched clean. His fingers loosened their grip on the rod. Linhardt remained frozen in place, jaw clenched and sweat breaking out on his forehead. He remembered to blink in time before his eyes watered too much. 

“For me,” Byleth repeated slowly.

Linhardt struggled to bait his line as a distraction. The worm kept slipping from his fingers, refusing to cooperate. After a lengthy moment, he haphazardly cast his line, tearing his eyes away from Byleth’s face. It landed with a heavy _plop._

“Yes,” he answered at last, squeezing his rod so tight he feared he might channel Caspar’s strength and snap it in two, “for you. I think I’m… I like you. Dearly.”

The silence grew unbearable and with no end in sight. He dared not to sneak a glimpse of Byleth in fear of what he might see. He said it. No denial or backpedaling could save him now. Byleth _knew,_ and would probably reject him. That would be the end of it, and Linhardt would attempt to move on with his life - 

“But why?”

The question came out so puzzled and earnest Linhardt almost mistook him for Marianne. _But why,_ she asked when he offered to research into her bad luck,_ why for me?_ And the answer was so blatantly obvious that he almost laughed - _Because I care for you as my friend, Marianne, why else? Don’t make me say such embarrassing things. Isn’t that obvious?_ Like then, he almost laughed at Byleth’s befuddlement. Then he stopped when he saw the genuine shock on his face.

“What do you mean, ‘but why?’ Why _wouldn’t_ I_?_” Linhardt stared back at him. “If it is because we are both men, none of that matters to me.”

“No. That’s not it.” He drew in a slow breath, reeling back his empty line to apply new bait. His hands remained steady as he laced a blowfly through the hook. “All I am is a man who knows how to wield a sword aptly put into a place of leadership because everyone assumes I am something more than that. But that’s all I am.”

A pause. Linhardt _tsked_ and shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are _so_ much more than that. All these labels you have - son of the Blade Breaker, Ashen Demon, Fell Star, Professor. If you base your sense of self all around _those,_ then yes, you are just one man who happens to wield a sword and a so-called destiny with little else to his name. But those labels don’t account for _all_ you are. You want to know why I like you so?”

Byleth hesitated, then cast his line with a short nod.

“You are afraid of ghosts.”

The certainty in his declaration made Byleth snort. “Excuse me?”

“The Goddess Tower - you remember, yes? I was there in hopes to see you to ask about researching your Crest.” The line snagged _hard,_ and Linhardt’s brow furrowed. He hated the heartier fish, lively and wriggling. He turned the line toward the fish. “That - come on - that place has more than one rumor, you know. Remember how I mentioned that it was cursed? It didn’t come from nowhere. Supposedly - _get over here_ \- a lovestruck woman waited three days and nights waiting for her true love to appear, but he never came. Her death came from heartbreak, and now a tale is spun that she haunts the tower and looks for the happiest couples to chase away. Professor Hanneman told me about it. I’m sure he must have told you, too.”

The fish - a Queen Loach, sporting colorful scales - fell into the basket. 

“I saw you long before you approached me, Byleth. You,” he said, grinning, “constantly looked over your shoulder. If you only heard about the legend of lovers being granted ‘eternal bliss’ or whatever nonsense they say, then you would have been more relaxed. And you wouldn’t have looked so _relieved_ to see _me_ there. Taking all this into account, it points that you are afraid of ghosts.” He raised an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“I think you’re projecting.”

“Ghosts are not real, you know. I have nothing to be afraid of.” A lie, but Byleth didn’t need to know that. “But that was an excellent way to avoid answering the question. I applaud you.”

“So you like me because I am afraid of ghosts, then.”

“I like you,” Linhardt corrected, “because you are more than just a walking legend amongst us mortals. You’re afraid of ghosts, hate spicy food, like the color pink which is why you painted those lines on your otherwise pitch-black armor, enjoy fishing with petulant scholars, listening to gossip as much as you would _ever_ hate to admit it, and stargazing. You are kind, thoughtful, and pay attention to others, even if it’s a total bother to you. Your mysteries and Crest captivate me - as they have _many_ people - but none of that compares to the little details. The parts that make you, you. The parts that make you _human._”

Ah. _Now_ what Hilda said made sense. The littler details were indeed the most important part. 

“Well, human-ish. I’m still not sold that you are _entirely_ human, but genetics and heart are two entirely different matters. Once we bring Lady Rhea home, we can uncover that mystery together. That aside.” He set aside his rod and turned completely toward Byleth, who’s wide eyes and parted lips just made him all the more endearing. “People exhaust me. You know that. But you? You hold my attention and never let it go. If you truly were just a man with a sword, then you would have bored me to tears. I wouldn’t have these feelings for you. But I do, so you’re wrong. So I’ll repeat myself, just this once.”

He swallowed hard.

“I like you, Byleth. All of you.”

The adrenaline enabling his false bravado began to dip. His face burned hotter than the Valley of Torment, and found himself thankful for the lanterns being too dim to show it. When was the last time he babbled so much over issues unrelated to research? His mouth grew dry, and he cleared his throat. 

“So,” he mumbled, “there’s your answer. Full marks? I even included citations, even if they were mentioned unorthodoxically.”

“I.” Byleth blinked several times, tugged at the collar of his shirt, and looked the other way. Embarrassed? Overjoyed? Linhardt couldn’t see his face, so he couldn’t quite gauge the full reaction. He waited patiently as Byleth pulled his thoughts together. After an eternity passed and the half-moon emerged from behind one of the monastery’s broken spires, he said, “Thank you.”

Another beat passed, and he continued.

“I’m not sure what to say.” He pulled in his line and set aside his rod. “Truth be told, until I came to Garreg Mach, I never experienced a full range of emotions before. There was a rock in my heart, crushing them down. So I don’t fully understand all my feelings yet. They’re all still so _new_ to me.”

He wiped his palms on his pants. His words sounded soft, confidence shaky, but honest. 

“So it’s very hard to know what I feel about. About this, about all your words. Something is different. I noticed it back on Gronder Field, something - the night before the battle, you gave me a reassuring push when I found myself struggling. Something about how I feel towards you changed, but I don’t -” he scowled and shook his head, “ - I don’t have a name for it, so I can’t say for sure if I return them or not. Your feelings. I need more time to work them out.”

Fascinating as always. It came as no surprise; only in recent times did Byleth’s expressions actually appear from beneath his stoic mask. Linhardt hummed in thought, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “May I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“These feelings - are they associated with anyone else? Or just me?”

“Just you. That’s what is so strange about them to me. They’re _warm,_” he rubbed his palm against his chest, “but not the same warmth I feel about - felt about - Father.”

Ah. A giddiness surged through Linhardt’s veins as his tested hypothesis turned into a solid theory. His heart thrummed against his ribcage, and he ducked his head to obscure his smile. “In that case, take as much time as needed. I promise you I won’t be going anywhere. Well, other than to bed and wherever the war takes us. Speaking of.” He flopped back onto the dock, letting out a large yawn. “I didn’t get my afternoon nap today, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to play catch-up. All this talk made me sleepy.”

He heard a faint chuckle, relieved and amused. “On the dock? Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“No, actually.” Linhardt cracked a smile and closed his eyes. “This is the best I’ve felt since the start of the war.”

***

“So?” Hilda winked at him, hands behind her back. “How’d it go?”

Linhardt set aside some paperwork - by gods, tailoring this many outfits for a scheme was going to cost them _so_ much money - before frowning. “Congratulations,” he drawled, giving her a rolled-up scroll. “Our professor agreed to have you becoming ‘moral support,’ as you so wanted. Never ask me for anything ever again.”

“_Ooh!_” Her eyes glittered with excitement as she fussed with the knot on the scroll. “See, I knew I could count on you, Linny. I - what is this?” Her head tilted to the side. “A… certification exam?” 

Byleth pushed aside the tactic’s room door, eyebrows lifted. “Oh, so you already got it. Linhardt made the suggestion based on your request, and I agree - you would be a good fit for the role. I’ve already drafted up a lesson plan to make sure you’re prepared before we storm the fort in a few weeks.”

“What role? What are you talking about? I thought I would be off the - a _dancer?!”_

“Hope you’re good with swords,” Linhardt deadpanned. 

“This is _not_ the support I had in mind, Linny. Oh gods, Claude is going to make so much fun of me! I can’t believe this! Dancing - I have to come up with a _routine_ and an _outfit_ and - ooh, that’s so much work!” She jabbed her forefinger at Linhardt. “I can’t believe you!”

“You never specified _how_ you wanted to be moral support.” He shrugged. “I just did what you asked. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Well, you can be sure about one thing - I won’t ask you for anything ever again, that’s clear! Professor,” she whined, pouting, “_please_ change your mind, I beg of you. I’ll even pair up with Seteth. Please?”

Linhardt and Byleth exchanged looks. 

_Pairing her up with Seteth might be interesting,_ Linhardt “said” with a quirk of his eyebrow.

_I’m not that cruel._ Byleth frowned. _She’ll regret that even more._

“_Ugh,_ okay, quit that weirdo-shmeirdo telepathy you two lovebirds have got going on. I’ll _do_ it, since it is kinda what I asked for.” She sighed in defeat. “Oh well. At least I’ll look pretty. But, Professor?” She waved the certification scroll at him, oblivious to the faint pink on his cheeks. “Do you have two of these, by any chance?”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, eyes narrowing with a devilish grin, “I want Claude to take it with me.”

Linhardt sighed, shaking his head. These fools. How did he get lumped with them again? Yet, as Byleth laughed as Hilda concocted her grand plan to prevent Claude from laughing at her _too _much, he realized he was glad he left the Empire behind with Caspar - if only for these moments with precious friends. Yes, even Claude - not that he would ever admit that. 

And he would protect them, no matter how tiring it may be.

Just as Byleth did.


End file.
